League of Legends Demacia Saga: War of the Witch
by dionysianDaydream
Summary: Worlds collide when an ancient evil threatens Demacia, with potentially more far-reaching consequences in store for Runeterra should it fall. Regardless of the outcome, things will never be the same... *continues from where the lore entries left off*
1. First Light - Part 1

Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV lead the detachment to L'Arachel, or what was left of the once cozy little hamlet.

"Split up and search for survivors," he commanded from atop his horse. "And for the crown's sake, put out that fire!"

Corpses – torn and bloody – were all that remained of the townsfolk, stricken down where they stood by an unknown army with not a soul spared except for the lucky. A fire was started at some point during the attack and had begun to spread, filling the air with a smog so thick that it blotted out the stars in the night sky.

"Gather the dead," he added on a somber note.

The official determination was that such a quick, devastating assault was the work of Noxian raiders, which had become more bold as of late in their shows of force along Demacia's Eastern border. An attack on a civilian settlement, however, was like a return to the long passed days of conquest. The time of great savagery, when committing such tragic acts was part and parcel for _both_ sides.

Jarvan watched as one of the soldiers fell to his knees, openly weeping. Normally he would have rebuked the man for being so squeamish in the middle of a crisis, but not on that night.

On that night, all of Demacia wept.

* * *

Prince Jarvan III awoke in a cold sweat in the wee hours of the morning, sandwiched between a pair of brothel wenches far, far away from his harrowing experience at L'Arachel. The wine bottle in his hand – to his dismay – was empty, and the inside of his head felt like it was currently home to a swarm of very agitated bees.

"Nice chatting with you, ladies," he said, as he arose from the prickly straw mattress to redress, causing them to stir.

After paying the madam of the establishment a little extra in 'hush' money, the Prince donned his hood and went for his horse at the stables on the other side of town.

 _How can I continue living like this..._

He set off at the crack of dawn, already fighting the urge to fall asleep at the reigns – lulled by the gentle rocking of the horse and the crisp, cool misty air and pine aroma that characterized the Western highlands.

If it were up to him, he thought, in that hazy, delirious state between being awake and dreaming, he would have preferred to stay a while longer...

* * *

A hawk fluttered upward into the clear blue sky then soared, letting loose a prideful shriek that carried far and wide across the vast expanse of rolling hills and grassy plains. Poppy watched it in awe, her spirits soaring with it, until it disappeared over the horizon marked by mountains and the snowcapped silhouette of what could only be Knight's Rock, towering above all else in sight.

Beyond the next rise there lay New Providence, the glorious capital city of Demacia.

The day had just started and already there was a long line of persons of all different shapes, sizes, and walks of life queuing up at the gate.

As Poppy waited her turn, her eyes wandered until she noticed something in the distance, in the direction from whence she had come.

A mile or so away from the outer walls of New Providence, there was an encampment extending from a region of untamed woodlands. The tents, however, were little more than hastily patched together fabrics, and the people loitering among them were not much better off.

A soldier tapped Poppy on the shoulder to snap her out of the daze. She was next in line.

 _Looks like the corps is a lot less strict about who they'll accept_ , Poppy thought, when she saw what awaited her.

It was the gatekeeper, a nebbish man in his 30s who had no business in fancy Demacian plate armor, that looked over the 2 ½ feet tall pigtailed girl with blue fur and what most closely resembled bat ears, but only saw one thing as being quite odd.

"Excuse me, miss, but is that really _your_ hammer?" he said, pointing to the one in Poppy's hand.

Poppy's hammer was ever the spectacle. Even most regularly sized people, to say nothing of its current wielder, would struggle at swinging much less lifting up a warhammer that had such a thick business end – like a roughly carved slab of rock, affixed to a metal frame.

"I bet you don't see a lot of Yordles packing one of these," Poppy said, showing off its full size by standing it up next to her. It was twice her own height, and more.

"No, and not usually travelling on their own, either." The majority he'd come across were simple traders and, being that Yordles were a small folk, they always traveled in large groups. "I'm guessing you're pretty tough."

She shrugged. "The hammer does most of the work."

The gatekeeper then proceeded to ask her a series of yes or no questions while an armored guard patted her down. Did she have any criminal history? "No." Any alcoholic drinks on her person? "No." Any hidden weapons? "No." Magical artifacts? "No." Explosives? "No." Any allegiance to Noxus? "No." Ionia? "No." Bilgewater? A big _yuck_ face, followed by a "No."

All of which were recorded, and checked against the extensive records that they maintained on everyone who entered and exited the city.

"Purpose of visit?" He finally asked, not looking up from his notes.

"Yes. Wait, no...I mean..." Poppy trailed off. For this one she didn't have a readily available answer, because it involved something she'd only heard about from other people during her travels.

The gatekeeper glanced up at her, making her think he was growing impatient.

"I'm here to see the memorial," she said. "The one that was built to honor," after a brief hesitation, "past heroes."

The gatekeeper nodded at this, then promptly returned to his notes.

Poppy examined his features, wondering if she'd accidentally said something wrong when he was taking an extra long time without saying anything, but then he looked up, smiling for the first time.

"Very well," he said, and shook Poppy's hand with unnecessary vigor. "Enjoy your time at New Providence."

She faked a smile, masking the anxiety she was feeling from her sudden return, after many decades of wandering, to the place where it all began.

* * *

Xin Zhao, the steward to the throne of King Jarvan Lightshield III, was tending to the plants on a high balcony that overlooked the city, when a messenger reached him with news of the girl's arrival mere minutes later.

A sprawling, medieval metropolis, New Providence had nonetheless earned its reputation for being the pinnacle of city planning, and in this aspect it was years ahead of the competition. A network of cobblestone roads winded neatly through its separate housing and commerce districts, and lush parks with man made ponds fed by the citywide plumbing and irrigation system, that sparkled beautifully in the early morning rays.

Xin Zhao smiled as he always did when he would stop to smell the roses, whilst taking in the grandeur of his adopted kingdom.

"Very well," he said to the messenger. "Please inform his Majesty that I will be out."


	2. First Light - Part 2

Garen Crownguard, a member of the esteemed Dauntless Vanguard – a squadron comprised of the most elite soldiers among Demacia's armed forces – was tasked with training the new recruits in the barracks that day. A duty that many of his peers detested, but one in which he took immeasurable pride.

Today's lesson was about the importance of conserving energy in battle.

"Consider the weight of your weapon and your armor, the last time you ate, how long you've been marching," Garen said. "Be aware of your limits. Choose a weapon," he continued, lifting his broadsword up with one hand, "according to your level of strength, not exceeding it."

"Prince Jarvan slipped into the room at that point but did not interrupt the lesson, even as Garen's eyes were coldly set upon him.

"If you try to push too far beyond your limits, you will find yourself vulnerable."

Jarvan scoffed. Subtlety was never one of Garen's strong points.

One of the cadets raised his hand with a question about how this lesson applied to soldiers who felt overwhelmed by their gear, since all of it was standard issue.

"It means, cadet," said Garen, warming a little out of his tough facade, "you still have a long ways to go."

Jarvan IV stepped out unto the padded arena, flourishing one of the dull practice longswords. Some of the cadets stared after him with awe while others glowered or scowled with obvious disdain.

"That's why I'm here. Good morning, children," he joked, but not all of them looked amused.

"The Prince and I have been sparring partners since _I_ was a cadet," Garen said, then turned to Jarvan. "I am pleased that, despite your sudden disappearance last night, you were still able to make it back in one piece."

Jarvan shrugged. "Ah, but how could I resist the opportunity to make an arse of an old friend?"

Laughter filled the room. Garen waited it out before adding, "he is here to assist in my demonstration of some techniques you can use to conserve your stamina."

"Oh, I never tire," Jarvan remarked suggestively to an unimpressed female cadet, then leaned closer to her, whispering: "it's in my blood."

At Garen's behest he two assumed the stances they had rehearsed. Garen stood with his unused hand resting on his away-facing hip and his sword's blade resting on the ground, whereas Jarvan held his sword pointed up and outward with both hands clutching the hilt.

"Observe my stance," Garen said to the cadets. "The weight of the blade is supported by the ground, but still held in a position from where I can use it to quickly respond to my opponent's attacks."

He then nodded to Jarvan, prompting him to attempt a strike which he easily parried.

"Prince Jarvan is constantly holding his blade in an offensive stance, even when it is not being used, which contributes to greater muscle fatigue and exhaustion throughout the fight."

Garen nodded to Jarvan, again, then blocked the ensuing series of attacks with ease, again.

"I think they get the picture," Jarvan grumbled.

"The true mark of a man is that he knows and does exactly what he is capable of when duty calls," Garen continued, not heeding Jarvan's protest except to glare at him, which only made the Prince more agitated.

* * *

Outside of the barracks, a woman garbed in a ragged black cloak loomed near the entrance. Her snakelike eyes flickered to the doorway as she watched and waited, listening in on the grunts and clashes of steel hitting against steel coming from within.

* * *

The tensions between Jarvan and Garen were reaching a boiling point.

"Such sloppy technique," said Garen, without any hint of jest. "Perhaps you should enlist. Maybe consider spending less time at the village pubs!"

"Join me some time...I think you could really use a pint!"

Jarvan parried too wide, leaving himself open to a swift kick to the chest, the sheer force of which sent him reeling back into a group of cadets that then quickly shoved him back into the arena.

"An irresponsible man makes for an irresponsible fighter, soldier, and leader."

"I am not held to the same standards as a member of the Vanguard," Jarvan grumbled through clenched teeth.

"No...the standards of a future King are even higher – your actions reflect on Demacia as a whole!"

Jarvan became furious. "A paragon of virtue like yourself would be much better suited for the job, right?" Such was his anger that he hammered his blade uselessly against Garen's unwavering block, just to have it be felt.

"Flattery...is unbecoming of a Prince," Garen growled, then retaliated.

His attack was caught against Jarvan's next wild swing, creating a deadlock from which neither would yield, even as they both leaned in so close as to bask in each other's breath.

"Really?" Jarvan laughed, then seethed, "Luxanna seemed to like it!"

Garen retreated from the deadlock. All throughout the battle he'd been able to maintain his composure, but no more. Enraged, he let out a loud cry as he reared his blade back over his shoulder for a full-powered strike.

Jarvan, taking advantage of the opening, responded with a dodge followed by a leg sweep.

Thus, the Might of Demacia was caught off balance and sent tumbling across the floor, in a most undignified manner.

Jarvan, at first smirking because of his victory, watched as the cadets clustered round to aid his fallen friend and felt only shame.

* * *

The snake-eyed woman perked up at the sight of him storming from the barracks. She followed after him, sticking to the unpopulated roads and back alleys.


	3. First Light - Part 3

To the far North of New Providence, a spire of rock partially sculpted on its windward face into the shape of a knight with a downturned sword – appropriately referred to by locals as Knight's Rock – jutted up between the crests of two waterfalls. From the base of the spire, beginning at a bustling harbor along the icy riverbank, then rising upward along smooth paths carved over centuries into the jagged rockface leading all the way to its summit, is the city of High Silvermere.

Lux Crownguard left the ancestral Crownguard mansion at the base of Knight's Rock to begin her ascent, just as the sun had reached its highest point in the sky.

Increasingly fewer persons had reason to take the arduous, uphill journey to the top, but Lux had made it an integral part of her daily routine. Along the way she would scan the trees and shrubs for pomegranates as this was the time of year when they were ripe for harvest, and pick as many as she could fit into a small basket to eat over the course of the next few days.

However, the main draw of the climb for her did not come until the very end.

The temple situated at the peak of Knight's Rock was once a major cornerstone of Demacia's old religion, but since the founding of New Providence and subsequent moving away from a focus on the divine to more wordly affairs, had been virtually abandoned.

Only recently had a new purpose been found for this forlorn relic, albeit under mysterious circumstances.

* * *

Back when Demacia was just starting to make a name for itself, a new type of weapon was needed to combat the magic users that frequently hailed from opposing tribes. To this end, the same magic resistant material that was used to build the walls that surrounded New Providence – petricite, harvested from one of a kind forest of petrified trees found in the region – was employed in the construction of an enormous monolith that could be carted into battle to defend against the otherwise devastating magical assaults.

The ploy was a huge success at the time, but since then times had changed.

Once the kingdom's borders were clearly established, and mages in general were becoming a much rarer sight, the gargoyle – Galio, as it had come to be called – was retired to Knight's Rock where it probably would have remained for the rest of time, had he just behaved like a normal statue.

Before long, stories of Galio occasionally becoming 'possessed' abounded among the people of Silvermere, with several claiming to have seen it walking around and even talking.

Demacians, ever wary of magic, were on the verge of turning against their nation's once cherished Colossus.

Before things could escalate further, however, the gargoyle was suddenly relocated – overnight, in fact – to the abandoned temple atop Knight's Rock. No one knew how it got there, but the stories about its odd behavior ceased soon thereafter, so the townsfolk were content to leave it be.

* * *

Galio could only watch, motionless, from his plinth as Lux entered. Already he felt the tingle of life surging through him, only increasing in strength as the distance between them lessened.

 _Good morning, small friend._

"Good morning," Lux said. She set her basket down and lifted her hand, letting the palm became enshrouded in a spectacular white glow. Then, she set it on the gargoyle and held it there until all the light was absorbed into it.

The effect on Galio was immediate.

He stepped off of his stone plinth and stretched – the wide walls and high ceiling of the old temple provided him with plenty of wiggle room – twisted to and fro then stooped down on one knee to meet Lux at her level, beaming with delight at the prospect of being alive.

"Good morning," Galio repeated, this time so that she could heard it.

The two would meet like this every morning to talk, or just enjoy each other's company. And if they ever ran out of things to talk about – which they often did, being that they were both isolated from the goings on of the world – Lux would use the time to practice her magic without fear of being caught while Galio watched, simply grateful for her presence.

Lux would try to channel forth as much of her magic as she could into the shape of an orb, even as Galio's petricite was a constant hindrance./p

To her never ending dismay, though, progress had been slow. The orbs she produced were barely any bigger since day one, and lately it seemed like they weren't getting any bigger at all, leading her to think she'd already reached her limit.

"Oh, that's your biggest, most shiniest one yet!" Galio said of the orb she materialized that day, but it did nothing to help her mood.

The gargoyle clapped with joy, causing the walls to tremble and Lux to break her concentration. As she watched another pathetically small orb fizzle away into nothing, she sighed.

"So long as I'm forced to keep my powers a secret, it doesn't matter."

Galio's 'happy' face shifted to one of concern. He was taken aback by the girl's own sudden change, not that it was anything new. Nonetheless, he'd learned from previous interactions that it was better to focus on working through what was making her this way, rather than to question it.

"Of course your powers matter," he said. "Someday Demacia might have a need for a power like yours, so you must always be ready."

"Yeah, right." Lux sat, still sulking. "Mom and dad won't even let me live with them in the city anymore. I'll never be seen as anything more than a nuisance..."

Galio, after thinking about it a little, was struck by a realization which he externalized at the moment of impact by way of a surprised grunt.

"Remember...you saved my life," he said. "Thanks to you, I still have a chance to protect Demacia again. To show them that...even if there are no more bad mages to smash my work to protect them is not done, and, I think...neither is yours."

The gargoyle's delivery was about as clunky as it ever was whenever he attempted to say more than a sentence all at once, but to Lux who had spent so much time with him, the true heart of his message was crystal clear. His optimism while being forced to endure similar circumstances gave her hope.

 _My work hasn't even started yet_ , she thought to herself, as the slightest smile graced her lips.

Galio laughed and stomped his tail, causing the entire temple to rumble and rattle. The chimes that were still hung over the altar all produced their sounds simultaneously, creating a cacophony of their different notes.

"Only one thing to do now," he proclaimed. "Start over from the top, tiny human friend!"


	4. First Light - Part 4

The Hall of Valor was impossible to miss. The cathedral-like structure on a grassy mound was made to dominate the skyline and the minds of all Demacians since its inception.

Poppy's footsteps echoed as she entered into the main complex, a massive dome that served as the final resting place for ordinary soldiers that displayed extraordinary courage, to exalted heroes of legend.

Among these were Iven the Sunderer, a Targonian who fought alongside he future founders of Demacia during the Rune Wars, claiming the lives of at least fifty mages on his own. Valkner the Wise, a master tactician who ensured the success of many campaigns during the golden age of conquest, and founder of the Dauntless Vanguard. Armand, known as the father of modern blacksmithing, who drafted the design of the very first retractable spear to aid in targeting the weak points of a dragon's head and neck, among other unique variations that have stood the test of time.

Each were given their own monument with statues depicting them in triumphant poses, with a little indented space at their feet for people to leave offerings like coins or flowers whether as a sign of reverence or in hopes that it would bring them good luck.

At the center of the dome, a giant column with a sculpted design of two knights standing with their backs to one another rose above the original throne of King Jarvan II, next to a glass display which contained the helmet worn by King Jarvan I, of a design that would go on to be worn by all the kings that would succeed him to the current day.

Poppy's chest swelled with an overwhelming sense of pride for her adopted homeland.

 _Demacia was built by heroes...ones just like him..._

* * *

A caravan of one hundred or so Rune War refugees rumbled across the frost covered plains due East, as the sun was beginning to set.

Poppy was huddled up in a blanket inside one of the wagons – unaccustomed to the biting cold of Demacian winters.

Skirting the outside of the wagon was a man whose shabby appearance belied the true importance of his role in Runeterra's history – with scuffed, low grade armor that you would expect to see on a common soldier and hair as wild and unruly as the world he was born into – he had nonetheless made a name for himself with his great leadership and skill in battle, deftly wielding a hammer that was like a roughly carved slab of rock, affixed to a metal frame.

He was about to check the map, but stopped when he saw something moving on the horizon. A row of bodies, covered from head to toe in black hoods that billowed in the breeze.

"Mages!" The caravan's watchman bellowed.

Poppy's ears perked at the alarm. She had only heard about the cruelty of the mages from the others, but that was enough to make her blood run cold from their mere mention.

She peeked her head out of the wagon curtain, but the man was gone. "Orlon?"

A flung fireball crashed and exploded on the ground mere inches away from her, pelting the wagon with scattered debris and leaving behind a smoldering crater.

Another followed, then another, all landing dangerously close to the row of wagons, then the next one landed and caused its target to explode into flames amidst shrieks of pain and terror, and panicked whinnies of the wagon's horses.

Poppy was overcome by a sinking realization - _we're sitting ducks_. And there was no sign of the designated strongmen who hung around outside the wagons.

Just then, Orlon blazed past on a horse toward the row of mages, along with the other refugees that were in fighting shape on horseback, as Poppy and the others cheered on from the wagons.

Later when the caravan stopped for the night, Orlon could barely keep a straight face while he told her about what had happened, around a pot of cobbled vegetables stew boiling over a campfire.

"I bet they didn't expect us to come at them as fast as we did, so they had no idea how to react."

Poppy laughed. "All according to plan?"

"It was a gamble, I'll admit," he said, pausing to check on the stew. "Seemed like a better option than just sitting back while they rained hell down on us."

"Sounds right," she said, recalling the fireball that came so close to blowing off her head.

"Even though their battles have nothing to do with us, we're always the ones who pay the ultimate price." Orlon clenched his teeth, a hair's breadth from the tipping point of full-on anger. "And if we try to run, they still hunt us down like we should be content with an existence plagued by fear."

Poppy had nothing to say. She was a stranger in their world, still innocent to the brutalities of war.

"There were only five of them today, probably just scouts. It could have been ugly."

However, the good fortunes of the refugees didn't stop there.

The caravan would go on to reach its final destination the next morning – a patch of land that Orlon had previously chosen to establish a new settlement for those fleeing from the tyranny of the mages. They toiled the land, they hunted, they logged the woodlands, and they mined every cave under Orlon's leadership, until they started to flourish. Drills and army tactics that he played a large part in developing during this time to defend the settlement from its enemies would be the basis for what would later become the strongest army in all of Runeterra.

* * *

Poppy stood before the memorial to Orlon and felt a mixture of melancholy and amusement, the latter arising from seeing his likeness twisted into such an exaggerated, over-the-top pose. She knew him as little more than an honest, simple man with a good heart, always humble and never prone to needless posturing for the sake of looking tough.

She wondered, for a moment, if he would have sees any similar qualities in her today.

"Orlon the Unifier," a voice as gentle as a clear spring said.

Poppy turned and there was a man with striking features – thin, almond shaped eyes, chestnut tanned skin and dark hair neatly tied in a traditional Ionian fashion seldom seen in Demacia's heartland – dressed in regal, courtly attire. "A charismatic leader who rallied the destitute survivors of the Rune Wars together to form New Providence."

"He was also a good friend," Poppy interjected glumly, then snorted a laugh. "A man who could drink his belly full and still aim a bow."

The man's stoic expression shifted ever so slightly into incredulity. "You _knew_ him?"

Poppy nodded.

"I may not look it, but I've been around the bend a couple times," she said, smiling meekly. "Sometimes I wonder where all that time went..."

The man bowed with grace.

"I am Xin Zhao, Seneschal of Demacia, here on behalf of King Jarvan III."

Poppy froze. She glanced around to be sure that there was no one else in the room. No guards, waiting to pounce on her as soon as he gave the command.

"Am I in trouble?" she asked, although she couldn't imagine what for.

Xin Zhao shook his head. "No...on the contrary, I have here a record of your accomplishments.

He opened up a scroll and showed her its contents – a long list of dates paired with brief notes detailing exploits like 'Odessa village is saved from rampaging raptors,' or 'a wyvern was slain at Jagged Tooth Rock,' or 'a hive of bandits was cleared,' going back several decades, all attributed to a small, unnamed warrior wielding a giant hammer.

"The list is quite long. Some call you the Iron Ambassador - you are like a legend among the people, a _hero_."

"I'm sorry," she said, anxiously fidgeting, "but you've got the wrong girl." She never thought of herself as a hero, just as someone who would occasionally lend a hand. Albeit, with the help of a really big hammer.

As she was walking away, however, Xin Zhao turned to her at the last second.

"King Jarvan has searched for you, or rather this hero for quite some time," he said, stopping her. "But I'm afraid...there isn't much time left."


	5. First Light - Part 5

The ancient burial crypts of the aboriginal plainsfolk of Valoran were a huge question mark in the historical record of Runeterra, and for good reason. Anyone brave enough to delve within should expect sudden cave-ins, all manner of infestations, booby traps, and some form of divine retribution to be meted unto them in the near future, because on top of everything else the crypts were said to be cursed.

Ezreal had made it past all of that – barring the part about curses – when the final sparks of the flame on his torch faded, reverting the labyrinth of winding corridors and death-filled chambers to their impenetrable native darkness.

For the average explorer, this simple malfunction might have spelled the end of the expedition.

 _Good thing I have a backup._

The gauntlet on his left hand – itself a precious artifact he'd unearthed during a previous expedition – hummed to life and lit up from the surge of mana that coursed through it as he clenched it into a fist.

* * *

Ezreal followed the tunnel until it opened up into a cavern, were he stood before a narrow, broken bridge of land across a deep chasm. Still, it was only the humid trapped-in air of the subterranean labyrinth that was causing the veteran explorer to sweat.

Water was dripping from the ceiling, indicating there was a large source overheard.

 _Maybe I'll go for a swim._

Ezreal dropped a pebble down into the pit and leaned forward to listen out for the eventual splash, approximately five seconds later.

 _Never mind._

He turned his attention back to the main obstacle at hand – the bridge's gap.

 _I can totally make this jump._

Ezreal armed his free hand with a climbing hook from his pack then went about measuring an adequate running distance between him and the gap.

Once content, after loosening up with a few stretches, he took a deep breath.

 _I am so going to die._

Ezreal sprinted to the edge of the gap then jumped, flailing his arms in the air as he flew to gain momentum, but still just barely making it by his hook becoming wedged into the hard rock. From there, his life was dangling by a thread over a pit of death, but all he did was laugh.

 _Nothing to it!_

The laughter faded, to be replaced by gut wrenching fear when he could feel the hook's grip begin to slip.

The rockface was too slippery for him to get a firm hold with his other hand, and the top of the ledge was well beyond his farthest reach.

 _Damn it...I musta jumped too early._

For the average explorer, their life would have been flashing before their eyes.

 _Pfft, I guess it can't be helped!_

Ezreal briefly disappeared in a yellow blur then reappeared on top of the ledge, just as his climbing hook came loose and plummeted down, down into the dark abyss below. This marked yet another time that this particular power of the gauntlet had saved him from a grisly death, but Ezreal still preferred to only use it in an emergency situation. A tool, no matter how useful, should never be relied upon too much.

* * *

The remaining path, luckily, wouldn't require any more leaps of faith. It was straightforward and devoid of any further obstacles, eventually opening into another cavern.

Guided only by the small circle of light provided by the gauntlet, Ezreal descended a set of steps until he reached the bottom, where a gruesome sight awaited him.

Skeletons were strewn about a sandy arena. Their individual skulls, rib cages, limbs and pelvises had been clearly smashed and dislocated over the course of what must have been a truly vicious battle, permanently staining the sand a deep red in some patches.

 _Blood sport. Some kind of colosseum, perhaps?_

The skulls, upon closer examination, had not belonged to a human. All of them more clearly resembled the skulls of different species of animals.

 _None of this makes sense..._

Ezreal froze when he thought he saw a something shimmer out of the corner of his eye.

Glancing up from the macabre mess in the arena, he came to the spine-tingling realization that he was not alone.

Atop the set of steps opposite from him, a dark-hooded figure was seated at a long banquet table. Its head was bowed down like that of a succumbed drunkard, the hollow eye sockets staring endlessly into eternity.

In its gnarled, fleshless hand, was a ruby chalice.


	6. Omens - Part 1

At the highest reaches of the tallest mountain range in all of Runeterra, Taric sat cross-legged on the edge of a cliff overlooking the grey ocean of swarming mist below, as a blizzard endlessly raged around him. Snow had piled unto his head and shoulders – almost burying him – but he was unfazed. Warm essence of starlight continually welled up within the region of his solar plexus then spread outward, sustaining him through the harsh, frigid conditions.

Shimmering gem shards would occasionally be drawn from the earth in his near vicinity by a strong magnetic force, to then levitate around him in perpetual orbit.

 _Mountain...stars...give me sight!_

Taric concentrated as the surface of his body began to glow with heat, causing the snow to melt. He could feel the mountain and the sky converge inside of him, overrun by discrepancies of neither element that were steadily growing in number by the second.

In that moment, Taric uncovered a great evil in the land, and was determined to stop it.

* * *

The climb was made much easier this time around. Invigorated by the starlight's touch, he was better able to endure the pangs of hunger or fatigue, so he spent the entire day and half of the next – only stopping when it became too dark at night to see – to reach the base.

A company of Rakkor warriors were patrolling the lower foothills, where snow gave way to a barren landscape scourged by blazing heat.

Taric, with his blue tunic and entourage of floating gem shards was woefully easy to spot against brown dirt and loosely clumped together briar shrubs.

"Halt!" One hailed, as they approached. "State your business on the mountain, outsider!"

"I have been reborn," he said dreamily – like he wasn't all there mentally.

The Rakkor warriors exchanged glances. For some reason they had never been able to discern, Mt. Targon seemed to always attract the weirdos.

In any case, they weren't content to let him roam free.

Taric was taken to a small patchwork of mud brick houses where the Rakkor lived, to a much larger central building that was designed more like a villa, prefaced by a central courtyard in which some troops were practicing their combat against straw dummy targets, or against each other in rough sparring matches.

It briefly reminded Taric of his time as a soldier, like a sudden flashback from a past life, as he was lead through an open doorway marked by a golden symbol of the Solari sun cult.

* * *

Leona, the chieftain or self-professed 'Radiant Dawn' of the Rakkor tribe, usually did not hesitate to get her hands bloody, but on this and only one other very special occasion did she falter in her duty to uphold the most strict rule among her people, to kill anything: be it man, beast, or unknown, that descended from the mist-wreathed summit of Mt. Targon.

She sat on a throne before Taric and his escorts, flanked on either side by spearmen whose uncovered pecks still glistened with sweat, while young servant girls fanned her.

"The laws of our tribe are very clear in this matter," she said, tossing back her long hair that was orange as the setting sun.

Her eyes traced the chiseled features of the captive's face, that somehow still retained a warmth that was frankly absent from those of the Rakkor men that seemed to all be cut from the same cloth.

With his eyes like sapphires upon her, awaiting judgment, Leona crumbled.

"As chieftain, however, I can make an exception," she said, maintaining her regal tone. "I will spare you death, on the condition that you become my husband."

One of the Rakkor patrollers sputtered in surprise, earning a condemning look from her.

Taric could not take the request seriously enough to react to it. Rather, every fiber of his being yearned to be out of that place, in order to continue on with his mission.

"Im truth, I cannot spare a moment longer dallying here, your highness," he beseeched her: "The world beyond the mountain is in grave peril!"

Leona frowned. Internally, she was a barely contained mess, thinking that if the new prisoner hadn't been so cold in his rejection, she might have had him be killed right then and there, but now instead she just wanted him even more.

"I shall give you some more time to think about it," she replied with a smirk.

The world outside of Targon could go sunless for all she cared, so long as she got what she wanted.

* * *

"Hey...psst...over here!"

Taric was sitting with his head bowed in the prison cell he'd been thrown in when he heard a voice calling out to him in a whisper.

"Hurry!" The voice pestered. "Before a guard shows up, idiot..."

Taric looked through the bars of his cell, past the thin corridor between it and an opposite cell where another prisoner was being held – an odd little man in a patched together purple cloak and black mask marked by a ring of tiny, glowing blue eyes of either mechanical or supernatural design, but it was impossible to discern.

The prisoner paced back and forth in his cell, urgently scratching at the crook of his hunched back.

"I beat a couple of those tinheads – you know, just for fun – but some more came and locked me up, saying – get this – that they won't let me go until they can 'reclaim their honor'!"

Taric's better nature compelled him to say something, even though he didn't feel like talking. "Couldn't you just let one of them win?"

"No way! I've seen enough of how these guys like to fight...they always go straight for the heart."

The prisoner fell to his knees in defeat, looking like a deflated balloon as he did so because of the way his robes bagged over his legs.

"The only way they'll let me leave is when I'm ground up feed, for their ugly, hairy cow...things."

Taric frowned, hiding his amusement. The Rakkor were known as a proud warrior race, but keeping a strong opponent locked up until you could manage to best him seemed highly ignoble, and certainly challenged that image.

"What about you, pretty boy?" The other prisoner asked. "Ready to get your first scar?"

'Pretty boy.' Taric rolled his eyes at the name. With his handsome looks it wasn't his first time being called it, only in this case said looks may have just spared him the same grueling gauntlet as his new acquaintance.

"Seems the missus in charge is single," he said, "but looking to change that...by force, if necessary."

"No kidding? Well, if it's these guys we're talking about, I guess even the women do everything by force..."

Taric didn't respond after that – he had been hit, again, by the apparent futility of his situation. Having been stripped of the old mace from his time as a soldier beforehand, in that tiny boxed cell with only a bed of hay and a lackluster latrine in sight, there seemed no method of escape.

Meanwhile, the dark forces that now threatened the world were growing ever stronger.

The prisoner heard him sigh, and looked and saw the gems that had previously been orbiting around Taric, now scattered on the ground in a circle around him to mirror his sunken spirits. "I bet I can break us out of here," he said, making cutting motions with an imaginary implement against the door of his cell. "Yeah...just gimme one of those gems. Gotta get a feel for it, first, but trust me."

Taric raised an eyebrow, seriously doubting that a dull shard of gemstone could be used to break through the thick iron bars.

He was adamant, however, as Taric willed one of the gems to slide across the ground to him.

"Thanks," Jax said. "Let's just say I have a way with unconventional weapons."


	7. Omens - Part 2

Prince Jarvan dipped his hand into the clear basin of water, cupping a stranded lily in his hand. He had found himself in one of the city's many tucked away greenspaces - one of the few places in the city that one could be free from prying eyes.

The snake-eyed woman strode into view from the adjacent street.

"If you can't even hold yourself together, how would you do with an entire kingdom?" She said. Her voice and entire demeanor was exceedingly intense, giving away the beast that resided within her.

"I don't suppose you came here to lecture me too," Jarvan said, still focusing on the lily.

"No...talk is cheap," Shyvana said, lowering the cloak of her hood. "I have come to fight for my homeland."

Jarvan slowly closed his hand around the lily, crushing it.

* * *

The Citadel of Dawn was the epitome of Demacian might and majesty. The ivory spires rose like spears defiantly pointed against the heavens, around a large, central dome.

A befitting prelude to the splendor of the royal seat of power in Demacia, the grand walkway that Poppy and Xin Zhao walked along to get there was broken up at regular intervals by plazas with gazebos and fountains – popular meeting places for housewives and their toddlers during the day.

"King Jarvan was a fine successor to his father, and a good man in his own right," Xin Zhao said to Poppy as they waited for guards to unlock the front gate.

The gate's mechanism was undone with a loud clang that startled Poppy, but Xin didn't seem to notice.

"After a string of illnesses, all that was left behind was a hollow shell."

* * *

The first room in the Citadel was an undecorated foyer devoid of natural light, save for scant rays which streamed through tiny, regularly placed horizontal slits in the walls.

"It has become...a particular obsession of his majesty to find the inheritor of Orlon's Hammer, so he had me look into the matter," Xin Zhao explained. "For years, he has had the city guards on alert for any travelers that even vaguely matched your description."

"Geez," Poppy grumbled. "I'm just a yordle with a hammer - what could he want _me_ for?"

A spiral staircase lead up – way up – higher than even the town's great border walls, but Xin Zhao stopped halfway up the first storey, and turned to Poppy with a sudden intensity.

"So, what compelled you to return to New Providence now, after so many years?"

"I..." Poppy averted her gaze as her expression visibly darkened.

Truth be told, she'd considered returning many times before, but could never muster enough courage to even approach the front gate.

Yet on some days, if she ever found herself in the area she would stand on a distant hill and stare at its outer walls awhile, if only to give some small comfort to her dormant yearning to see beyond its high walls.

After all, Poppy still had a job to do – to pass on Orlon's prized hammer, the 'Hammer that Built a Nation', to a worthy candidate – and she was determined to not return until she was successful.

 _...and yet, here I am,_ she thought, frowning.

"I don't know," was Poppy's conclusion, and eventual reply. But she knew she couldn't stay for long.

The stairway took them to a hallway that formed a perimeter around one large, central room, accessible through a set of richly crafted wooden doors that bore the insignia of Demacia – a winged blade – 'parting' the intricate design of swirling clouds that was carved into the woodwork.

* * *

Shyvana stood at Prince Jarvan's side, before the stunned generals of the packed war meeting.

Having dispensed of her cloak and outfitted herself with her signature armor: her skin, covered in purple scales, was put on full display by her two-piece crimson midriff plackart with a high cut plated mail skirt. Her claws, sharpened to a point like those of a beast, were cradled in shields with jagged protrusions that could inflict just as much injury.

One could easily be convinced that every aspect of her appearance was designed to cause harm, down to her piercing, fiery stare.

"Please, do not fear my friend," Jarvan said, as if oblivious. "She will be joining us tomorrow."

The soldiers murmured among themselves. The generals, all of them staunch traditionalists, exchanged looks of varying incredulity and contempt.

Garen, who was standing in the back with his arms crossed, cleared his throat before addressing the soldiers in his midst: "If any of you lack faith in your Prince, I suggest you leave."

The soldiers, hearing this, were immediately hushed. Word had spread among the ranks of the fight earlier that morning, so his words came as a surprise to many, including Jarvan. The generals, likewise, just shook their heads and swallowed their prejudices, at least for the time being.

Jarvan issued a slight nod to Garen in thanks, but he looked away.

Attentions were refocused on the issue at hand – on the map, where Mt. Targon was drawn, surrounded on all sides by groupings of ebony cones that each indicated a unit of one hundred enemy soldiers.


	8. Omens - Part 3

The doors parted, unleashing an intensely bright light from within.

Once her eyes adjusted, Poppy's gaze drifted upward to the glass domed ceiling, its design made to resemble an aegis.

"I have returned, your majesty," Xin Zhao said, facing forward.

Poppy let out an audible gasp when she first laid her eyes on what remained of King Jarvan III. He looked to be knocking on death's door with both hands - his ornate, white and gold Demacian-steel plate armor hanging from his bony, enfeebled frame, and the silvery grey of his beard reaching down to his shoulders.

King Jarvan bristled at the sound of the door opening.

Although he could not see the two as they entered, through eyes a misty grey, he immediately recognized the light rustle of Xin Zhao's robe as it glided across the polished tiles, accompanied by an unfamiliar set of footsteps.

The latter was like the typical Demacian infantryman's steps, only minus the disciplined gait, and more of a clunky hobble in its stead.

"Zhao, and...a stranger?" The king said loudly with a voice of unquestionable authority, in contrast to his withered stature. "A child wearing her father's boots!"

"Your majesty, I heard you've been looking for me." Poppy said, stepping forward meekly.

"The Iron Ambassador, my liege," Xin Zhao added quickly. "She wields the hammer of Orlon."

The king gasped. All at once, there was a nervous twitching all about him, as a thin smile slowly crept across his decrepit lips.

"May I touch it?" He said, with timidity, outstretching his hand like a beggar for alms. "The hammer..."

Poppy looked to Xin Zhao, who gave his approval with a nod. She moved forward and extended the reach of the hammer, while the two guards posted in the room watched intently, until the blunt end rested in his palm.

The king was practically giddy. "Oh...yes, it is just as I remember."

Poppy immediately thought to make the point that a hammer of such a simple design could be easily replicated replicated, but bit her tongue so as not to ruin the moment.

The king reached out his other hand, higher, to gently stroke the fur of Poppy's face.

"I did not think to find you alive after all these years," he mused. "I don't know if you remember, but I was but a child when you fought alongside Orlon. And to think, you sound as vibrant and young as ever...whereas Zhao has to prop me up on the throne every morning."

As King Jarvan laughed – in that way one does to cover up their own anguish – Poppy _could_ remember, like it was only yesterday.

During the long periods when Orlon was out doing battle, or finding more refugees to add to the population, someone had to take charge. Jarvan I, a veteran of the rune wars, was chosen because of his combat expertise and longstanding ties within the community. He was eventually succeeded by his son and grandson, even though no law was ever put in place to specifically say that only a Jarvan could be king. This trend nonetheless continued over the following decades, without opposition.

In a way, the Jarvan family's continued legacy had become emblematic of the country's enduring might.

Jarvan III was well aware of this fact, and of the power that symbols held within the eyes of the public in general, which was why his search for the inheritor of Orlon's was more than a case of satisfying his own nostalgia.

"Iron Ambassador, I am sure you know that these are troubling times," he started off by saying.

* * *

At the base of Mt. Targon, a line of Rakkor warriors stood atop a sheer cliff with their javelins drawn, staring down the sights of a line of archers gathered down below. It was a tense standoff that had been going on all morning, which neither side was brazen enough to break, when it was suddenly interrupted by a series of loud, strained exhalations.

Taric formed a shield with his floating gems just in time to deflect a spear that was flung at their backs by their pursuers, as he and Jax made it down to the last slope of the mountain.

Footsoldiers stepped out from behind the line of archers to advance upon the two, their weapons drawn.

"Oh, crap," Jax said, realizing that they were caught between the Rakkor and the invading army. "Crap, crap, crap, crap..."

"Out of the frying pan and into the freezer," Taric said.

"More like another frying pan." All he had on him was the gem, now cracked, that he had used to break them out of the cells. "I'm gonna need a bigger gem to get us out of this one."

Jax abruptly threw it at the head of one of the Rakkor warriors, knocking him unconscious through his helmet.

* * *

The sweltering heat only seemed to intensify as the two remained locked in a No Man's Land between the two armies.

Glancing up at the sky, mourning the tranquility he'd left behind at Mt. Targon's highest peaks, Taric saw the sun and...another sun, gradually growing in size.

An unknown object, like a meteor, was descending upon them in a fiery blaze.

Taric pointed it out to Jax. "Seems like we have an even bigger problem." Looking back, he saw that the Rakkor were already making a beeline back to the mountain.

Jax simply grunted - t _oday just keeps getting worse._

* * *

A demigod, known by the mountain folk as Pantheon, touched down on top of the main thrust of the invading army in a giant, cataclysmic explosion that sent shockwaves rippling across the desert. Men in full body armor were thrown into the air like rag dolls, while others still plummeted to their deaths in the wide cracks that spider-webbed across the dry, parched earth, screaming in terror.

Taric and Jax shielded their face from the flying rocks and debris until the dust cleared, then watched as a human figure rose up from the impact crater.

Pantheon looked around, his eyes aflame with starlight, until he settled on his first target: a young soldier, fumbling with his crossbow.

 _To send a pants pissing whelp like this to face us...pathetic!_

Rearing his arm back, as if to throw a javelin, a spear of starlight materialized in Pantheon's grasp and he threw it, brutally impaling the soldier through the face.

The other archers turned to him and let lose a volley of arrows and bolts.

Pantheon positioned his other arm as if to hold up a shield, and the starlight was bent to his will yet again - forming a shield to fend off the assault.

Taking advantage of their distraction, the Rakkor on the cliff rained their javelins down upon the archers. Taric and Jax, meanwhile, took the opportunity to slip away, with the latter making sure to pick up one of the swords dropped by a fallen soldier.

"Know the wrath of my people!" Pantheon cried. "This...is...Targon!"


	9. Omens - Part 4

The fresh-air market of High Silvermere's harbor was a gathering place for the many local fishermen and hunters that worked along the river, but also invited its fair share of merchants hailing from other regions. Particularly, those who had some reason or another to avoid doing business in New Providence.

Lux was combing the stalls, picking out what to have for dinner that evening, when she noticed a tent that had not been in town the day before, and thought to take a look.

As soon as she entered, she was overwhelmed by a bitter aroma.

The figures that were clustered around a small fire pit in one corner of the tent grew blurry, as did the few curious customers that were moving among the rows of bookshelves and display counters featuring various bits of jewelry and curiosities, ranging from old clocks to hand-carved sculptures of different animals.

 _What's going on?_ Lux thought, feeling light-headed, thinking she could hear one of the sculpted bears growl.

A hand touched her on the shoulder. She turned and was locked into the cold stare of an old woman, who then smiled as if delighted by something reflected in Lux's features.

"It is the incense, my child," she said. "Elvenroot. Not very pleasant to the uninitiated, but you'll be fine."

The persons at the fire turned to look at her: there was a very tall man awkwardly kneeling over the flame, a dark-haired younger man with his back to the wall, a yordle girl in a dancer's garb, and a rugged, bearded man, all quietly appraising her.

"I have to go," Lux blurted out in a panic, and darted out of the tent.

* * *

Along the waterfront, ships of all different shapes and purposes were moored, rocking and creaking gently with the mild flow of the icy river. Most of the shipping and moving took place early in the morning so the docks were calm now, but alas never free from the lingering odor of chum and the tobacco crop that was so heavily imported from Shurima along this route.

Ezreal was out on the deck of his humble houseboat, chewing on biscuits to help stave off the mild seasickness he'd been afflicted with all morning, when Lux approached on the docks.

She was still panting and sweating from the strange ordeal.

"Lux...you look pale!" he said, so flustered that he dropped his precious parcel of biscuits. "Come on, and I'll uhh...get you some tea!"

In his haste, he stumbled over a mop bucket as he turned, but quickly resumed.

* * *

The two were squeezed into the boat's tiny kitchen space – so cramped that there wasn't any room for chairs so they had to instead kneel at the small table, and with a roof so low that the only way to move around was on your knees anyway. Lux thought that it was originally designed with a Yordle in mind, which would also explain how Ezreal was able to afford it.

She told him about her bizarre experience at the trader's tent.

"It felt like..." She said, holding her hands around her neck to simulate - "I was suffocating."

Before Ezreal could respond, the kettle that was heating on the wood stove behind him started to whistle. He poured some of the hot water into two mugs, then plucked a leaves from the plant hanging from the ceiling in a suspended basket-turned-planter, to sprinkle into each.

"Look...if something happened to you," he said, pausing for a moment to collect himself, "I'd never be able to live it down. Maybe stay out of that part of the market – nothing but weirdos from out of town there, anyway..."

As he passed one of the mugs to Lux, their hands met.

He stared into her eyes, with bated breath, thinking _this is it – this is finally the moment I've been waiting for!_

Lux squeezed the back of his hand, with the kind of tenderness he'd only ever dreamed of.

"One lump please," she said, catching him by surprise.

"Huh? One lump..." Ezreal frowned, then laughed awkwardly when he realized she was talking about the tea. "Coming right up."

Lux giggled. If he just wasn't so _cute_ when he was angry, she maybe wouldn't be so cruel.

* * *

Ezreal, in a bid to recoup his losses, knew just the type of thing that would interest her. He crawled over to the adjacent 'bed'room – it was really just a sleeping bag – where there was an old chest that had clearly suffered its fair share of water damage over the years.

"I found this in an Aboriginal burial crypt the other day," he said, as he pried open the chest. "None of my usual contacts at the museums got back to me, so I was wondering if it might be useful for your studies."

Ezreal handed her a chalice – the one he'd pried from the skeleton at the hidden arena.

Lux huffed. "So, you're only showing me this because it's worthless?"

"I never said it was worthless!" Ezreal quickly retorted. "It's encrusted with rubies, after all." He added, after a brief hesitation: "Sell it if you want..."

She turned it around in her hand a bit. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and she couldn't recall any mention of cups or chalices in the occultic texts she would often comb through, as part of her duties as a Radiant One.

"It may be used for some kind of ritual...a human sacrifice type of deal," Ezreal warned. "So be careful, alright?"

Lux nodded, but in reality those dire words only made her _more_ curious.


	10. Omens - Part 5

The night is young. A mob of villagers lit up the sky with their torches as they waited in the bushes before the entrance of a cave, with murder in their eyes.

Earlier that day, word had gotten out among them that one of their own – a local miner's daughter named June – was kidnapped by a strange group of supposed cultists that had been seen congregating at an abandoned mine shaft just outside of town. Occasionally, glimpses of oddly cloaked figures roaming the wilderness had haunted them before, but always alluded the soldiers and even the prestigious Radiant Ones when they were eventually set on the trail. Perhaps, the villagers feared, they had just been lying in wait for the best opportunity to strike.

In their time of need, they enlisted the help of a ranger-knight that had been roosting at the village's inn for the night.

* * *

Quinn was never the type to turn down a civilian in need, but insisted on going in alone first, to scout the area.

She entered into a small cavern that dipped into a much larger _mouth_ , with rows of stalagmites like teeth jutting up, and down from the ceiling along the perimeter. At the center was a natural archway through which a mine tunnel ran its course – the throat that lead to the belly of the beast.

Seeing that the path ahead grew quite narrow, she made a signal to her trusty avian companion, Valor, for him to take up a position on a rock beside the archway.

The bird complied, but tilted his head in that way Quinn registered as a sign of confusion.

"Relax, birdbrain," she said, scatching the top of his head. "There's not a lot of space for you to flap those big ole wings in there, so just hold tight."

Valor shrieked, and althought it wasn't all that convincing, Quinn generally took whatever she could get from the stubborn eagle.

She loaded a bolt unto her crossbow then proceeded, alone.

The archway lead to a long corridor, lit by candles set into indentations along the wall, that broke off into several rooms. As Quinn crept along, she saw a cooking and dining area, sleeping areas designed to fit multiple people, storage rooms stocked with basic food supplies and tools. Basically, all the necessities of life for a sizable community of people.

A familiar squawk pulled Quinn from her observations. She looked back and sure enough there was Valor, hobbling just behind her.

"Valor!" Quinn said like a sister scolding her brother for coming into her room without a knock.

The falcon shrieked, reminding her of something very important. _Rule Seven: Trust you can rely on your partner._

Quinn sighed. "Okay, fine, but at the first sign of trouble you fly out, okay?"

Valor flapped his wings in confirmation.

* * *

A young woman was brushing her hair in front of a mirror in one of the bed chambers when she heard their hushed arguing, and saw the reflection of Quinn passing by in the corridor.

With a gasp, she took to hiding behind one of the cots.

"Is someone there?" She could hear Quinn say, and sense in the form of an irrepressible tingling in the back of her brain as she slowly entered into the room.

* * *

Quinn pointed her crossbow at the girl when she suddenly rose from behind the cot, trembling with fear, with one hand clutching a knife. Her hair was long and dark, and so unruly that seemingly no amount of brushing could help it, as much as she tried.

"H-h-help me...please...I just wanna go home..."

Lowering her weapon, Quinn extended a hand to her. "June? Is that you? Are you alri-"

Once she was close enough, the trap was sprung.

June suddenly swiveled behind Quinn and held the knife up to her neck.

"I don't understand," Quinn said, already reaching for one of the bolts in her quiver then dropping it unto the ground, prompting June to knock away her crossbow.

"Of course you don't...none of them do," June said, on the verge of tears. "If I didn't run away, they were going to kill me!"

"The cultists, you mean? In that case you should've just asked for help."

"No!" June shook her head vigorously, beating the sides of Quinn's face with her curls. She snapped the wrist of her other hand that wasn't holding the knife, and it lit aflame. "I'm a _mage_...the people in the village would have killed me if they ever found out, so I had no choice but to run away with Master Roch!"

Quinn was much stronger than June, and knew about a hundred different ways she could break out of exactly this type of situation, but didn't want to hurt her just yet. She needed to go undercover for more _intel_ , little knowing how much she would come to regret it.

"Look, we can sort this out..."

She glanced to the space underneath one of the cots, where Valor was staying hidden during all this time, and cast him a wink.

Valor cocked his head about, until one of his eyes honed on the bolt that she had previously dropped.

* * *

Master Roch, a darkly handsome man, looked upon his audience of men and women, mostly young and impressionable, all dressed in black robes. He did so with the warmth of a father figure they had all come to adore, but internally could barely contain his excitement at what was at hand.

He stood at a table before a sandy pit, wherein his followers were grouped and chanting in unison.

In his hand was a chalice as silver as the moon's pale face, visible through a hole in the cave's roof, hanging almost directly above dark gathering. _Almost_ , Roch's thoughts echoed, with great anticipation.

June entered with Quinn still in her possession.

"Father!" She cried, beaming like a child. "I've found an intruder."

The followers stirred from their chanting to make way for her, until she stood before Roch who appraised them both with a smug grin.

"Look here, children," he said in a booming voice, flamboyantly signalling to the others, "even now as we stand at the doors of Paradise, the outlanders seek to destroy us!"

The crowd erupted into chaos as the followers jeered, clawing or spitting at Quinn in protest.

"June...your friends, your family, they're all worried about you," Quinn said, having to raise her voice to be heard above the commotion. "It's not too late.."

However, June couldn't hear anything over the sound of her own chanting.

Her fate was sealed.

* * *

The moon was finally in the right position, basking the scene in its full light.

All at once, Roch's followers held their arms up as if to praise it. Even June, letting Quinn free from her grasp.

Quinn scrambled to the edge of the pit.

Even if she had her crossbow, she wasn't sure of who to shoot in this scenario.

"I've waited years for this moment, Demacian," Roch said, swinging his chalice around with a crazed look in his eyes. "Behold! The beginning of the end for you and your wretched ilk..."

Quinn rolled her eyes. _Okay, I'd definitely shoot him if I could..._

June and the others were too far gone to notice this crack in their great leader's false image, as their moans and whimpers of ecstacy and soft grazing against one another gradually ramped up in intensity.

Eventually, it became scratches, primal growls, and teeth and eyes glistening before a bite.

Then, Quinn could only look on in horror as it devolved into an all-out bloodbath.

"Damn it...why won't it work?!" Roch, in a fit of rage, was waving his chalice around, vainly trying to catch some of their flying blood in it.

One of the frenzied followers pounced on the table and mauled him like a wild animal would its prey – all semblance of humanity absent from him.

 _Gods have mercy,_ thought Quinn, as his screams grew then promptly died out.

* * *

The carnage was already over by the time Valor arrived with the villagers, and not a single member of Roch's congregation had been spared.

Valor flew across the room and found Quinn huddled in a corner, untouched but not unshaken.


	11. Resolution - Part 1

Prince Jarvan was up and in the process of being outfitted by a squire when a messenger came to inform him that he was wanted in the throne room.

"Ah, yes...the steward must be out and there's a jar that needs opening," he mused aloud.

One never knew what to expect of an impromptu summons from his father, who was notoriously a few pieces short of a chess match in his old age.

* * *

Poppy was waiting in the throne room, only now she was bedecked in a flashier set of armor.

"It is only fitting that a hero of Demacia wear suitable _regalia_ ," King Jarvan explained, as she was making some final adjustments on one of the ivory and gold pauldrons. "This suit was crafted over the course of a year using only the finest materials, by a team of our nation's most skilled blacksmiths, and polished every day since its creation, to honor you on your return."

"I'm... _really_ honored, you majesty," Poppy said, although the helmet – that was like a crown with a smoothly cut, no doubt very valuable opal at the center – made her feel self conscious more than anything.

She had only really agreed to the king's request out of a sense of obligation, so her heart wasn't really in it. Xin Zhao could tell based on her demeanor, from his usual post at the right hand of the throne.

* * *

Prince Jarvan entered. He took one look at her and the armor she was wearing, and sighed.

"Father," he said, rubbing his eyes with exasperation, "you don't mean to tell me this is the hero you've been prattling on about for the past decade."

"The very same, my boy," he replied, looking quite pleased.

"For the crown's sake, father, she has _pigtails_!"

Poppy was just as nonchalant as the king; bobbing one of her pigtails in her hand. "Oh, would you prefer if I had _three_ pigtails?"

Prince Jarvan looked back and forth between her and his father.

In that moment, he seriously began to wonder if the entire kingdom had gone mad overnight.

"Our friend has agreed to accompany you on the advance party today, upon my request, so save your whining for until you get back."

Prince Jarvan took a deep breath before turning to the pint-sized 'hero'.

"Just so you know, this is a vital mission," he said, gravely. "Mt. Targon is under siege by Noxus, and would prove a devastating strategic loss to us if it should fall under their control."

Poppy nodded eagerly. "Got it, your majesty. I won't let you down!"

"I am leading with an advance party while the reserve troops guard our rear, to see if I can't speak to the enemy commander."

"Mhmm...diplomacy first, with violence as a last resort! I know the drill."

Jarvan stroked his chin to keep from smiling – she was just too cute to take all that seriously, but he had to admire her spirit.

He glanced at the hammer at her side. _Could she really be the one?_

Poppy, fidgeting and rocking to and fro anxiously in the Prince's presence, could likewise not help but think he was 'cute' too. After all, he looked strong and spoke with enormous vigor, and when he looked at her hammer she saw his eyes that were like Orlon's – an uncommon pale blue, like the misty skies of the North, that seemed to always spark with a youthful vitality.

Xin Zhao could see the sudden change in her, and the way her own eyes twinkled when she looked up at Prince Jarvan, and smiled to himself.

The king was pleased. "Good. Now, then...go and lead Demacia to victory!" he said.

* * *

Even as Pantheon continued to decimate the first line of Noxians that were advancing upon Mt. Targon, General Ottavio was not the least bit disturbed as he watched the chaos unfold through a telescope from his camp situated atop a distant hill.

"Send them in," he said to one of his officers, and the gears were immediately put into motion.

In truth, he'd intentionally sent in his weakest troops for the purpose of baiting out this legendary champion of Mt. Targon.

Pantheon was repeatedly beating his shield against the face of a man, until the point that his victim fell unconscious, battered and bloody, when he saw a procession of figures in blood red robes appear at the top of the sand dune that lay between him and the remainder of the Noxian troops, that he couldn't wait to have dine on his fury.

The other Rakkor warriors on the cliff cheered, urging him to continue his lethal campaign.

"Could it be...an opponent more worthy of facing a warrior of Targon?"

In the sweltering heat of the sun, their shapes were distorted, but it was clear that they were unarmed, much to Pantheon's dismay.

 _Ever more sheep for the slaughter! Targon will not fall to such fools._

Just as Pantheon was rearing back his hand to strike with another spear, however, a raven alighted on his knuckle, cawing indignantly.


	12. Resolution - Part 2

The march was long and arduous, but not one man, or woman, or Yordle or half-dragon among the thousand-strong army was unequipped to take it. Poppy was stuck sharing a horse with Garen, however, whereas Shyvana got to go with Jarvan.

"I would much rather travel on foot," Shyvana growled, but Jarvan would not hear it.

Every now and then Poppy would glance up, see them riding together, and feel a tinge of... _jealousy_.

"At times, I've envied your way of life," Garen suddenly said.

Poppy perked up, realizing he was talking to her.

"Records of your achievements would come in, and I would wonder what it was like to freely give to my people the way you have, free from the restraints of my duties as a soldier."

Poppy frowned. For her, it was the opposite.

"It's not all it's cut out to be," she said. "After a while, you start to feel kinda lonely."

Garen grunted in affirmation, but it's not like he could relate. As a soldier, he'd spent most of his life surrounded by his peers or those that he was sworn to protect. During these long marches, however, he would often take the time to reflect, with his sister Lux being a prime target for his wandering thoughts. He wondered if _she_ ever felt lonely, up in High Silvermere.

The grassy praries started to fade into brown, up until they reached the edge of a vast wasteland of rolling sand dunes beset by a stifling wind from whence their destination loomed, still far ahead.

"Mt. Targon!" Poppy said, in awe. "I've never been there before, but I've heard all kinds of crazy stories."

Garen had, however, on _several_ occasions when duty called, which it quite often did.

Demacia had maintained an uneasy alliance with the natives, mostly held together by their mutual rivalry with Noxus: for Demacia, it was more a matter or principles – theirs of protecting the weak so that they might become strong, versus the Noxian motto of 'strength rules all,' always seeking to bring new territories under its yoke – whereas the Rakkor were more just in it for the blood, and to protect what they considered sacred land. Today marked Noxus's boldest advance on the mountain yet.

Jarvan halted the company's advance just as the specks of people became visible.

"Advance party, to arms!" he said, turning to face the unit. "Soldiers, be aware that there is a hero among us today, so in honor of all that she's done for our country, do not let her down!"

The unit erupted into cheers as Poppy sank into the saddle, her ears twitching with embarrassment.

* * *

Jax and Taric didn't make it very far before they were spotted by another, smaller group of Noxian soldiers posted further away from the mountain.

"Just do as they say," Taric said, then added sarcastically: "Noxians are renown for their fair and ethical treatment of prisoners of war."

But Jax had other plans. He was properly armed now, and that changed everything. As the line of soldiers progressed on them, he twirled his commandeered blade in the air, then leapt from an inhuman distance unto his first target.

In his descent, Jax smashed the blade down on his head, with enough force to kill him instantly.

Taric, not wasting any time questioning his companion's abrupt shift to lethal force, compelled his gems to orbit Jax instead, then imbued them with starlight to produce a blinding flash.

Disoriented, three other soldiers fell to three more strikes of Jax's sword.

The remaining handful, standing at a distance, could be seen going for their bows and crossbows.

"Press on, friend!" Taric said, when Jax showed hesitation. "Now it is _your_ turn to trust _me_!"

Jax stared down the sights of the archers as they unleashed their volley.

As they did so, Jax became enshrouded in a bright light emitted from the gems, forming a thin layer along the surface of his body that perfectly deflected the bolts and arrows.

"Oh, now that's good," Jax said, as his attackers were backing away in fear.

Freedom for the two was but one more leap strike away.

* * *

General Ottavio spotted Prince Jarvan and the advance army on the horizon, their Demacian standards replaced with white flags, indicating that they were there for reasons the pure blood of his rich Noxian heritage cared nothing for.

A murder of crows, meanwhile, were pecking at a fallen Rakkor warrior's helmet – all that was left of the one called Pantheon – and sifting through the sand with their beaks as though confused by the lack of carrion.

Ottavio knew that time was ticking, so he had to send the Demacians on their way as quickly as possible.

And to this end, he would be free to indulge in whatever carnage he cared to conjure.

The red robed _children_ were laughing and playing in the sand among the piles of corpses and fissures left behind by Pantheon, oblivious to the fact that he could be back at any minute, with a vengeance.

* * *

Prince Jarvan was confronted by a hulking, bald general in spiked black plate armor and a squad of elite juggernaut troops, unlike the tiny, expendable pawns that were condemned to positions around the mountain.

"I am Captain Gorn," he said, crossing his arms to make himself appear even bigger. "The general will not hear your pleas for mercy."

Jarvan dismounted, unperturbed by the captain's cold shoulder.

"Good...then I guess you'll have to do."

He casually walked up to the captain, who dwarfed him in size, and had on hand an axe that could probably cleave him in two with one swing.

"Call off the attack, so my troops won't have to waste their time dealing with your ragtag mercs."

Poppy's heart was pounding as she watched. "Is he crazy!?"

Garen was stonefaced. "Brave, or crazy...probably a little bit of both."

Rather than squash Jarvan like a bug, though, Captain Gorn cracked a grin. "Very funny. Your ancestor's crown is still held by Sion."

Jarvan chuckled. "I would like to chop off your tongue, and 'hold' unto it in much the same way."

Gorn was referring to the throne of Jarvan I, that was famously taken as a trophy by the Noxian warlord that killed him, forever sealing the enmity between the two nations to the point where even just mentioning it was enough to get a rise out of any proud Demacian.

"I'll tear you limb from limb," Gorn growled, hunching over to press his forehead against Jarvan's.

Poppy hopped out of the saddle, unable to contain herself anymore. "Stop!" She blurted, prompting the captain and Jarvan to turn to her.

Gorn and his soldiers laughed.

Jarvan averted his eyes, embarrassed, as Poppy came to his side.

"Is this your pet?" Gorn said. "Aw, look...she's scared!"

Poppy glared at the captain, then looked to Jarvan sheepishly, knowing she'd messed things up.

The prince was not outdone due to this one minor flub, however. From his many prior dealings with Noxians, he knew exactly how to speak their language.

Jarvan grinned, his new plan already hatched.

"I wager our _pet_ could take you on," he said. "Prove me foolish, and you can keep this damnable mountain."


	13. Resolution - Part 3

Lux was returning from her visit with Galio that day, when she noticed a horse and carriage parked in front of the manor.

All at once, a sense of foreboding came over her. _Have I been found out?_

Lux was only slightly relieved to see who was sitting in the carriage. A warrior woman with hair a distinct reddish color that was unusual for the region, and light cloth attire in contrast to the heavy plate armor worn by her contemporaries.

Her clothing bore embroidered designs that were as exotic as her slanted eyes, and her name.

"I hope this isn't a bad time," Kahina said.

"No...what is it?"

"Business," she replied covertly.

Lux nodded, even though felt a little sad from this response. The two had known each other since long before she was recruited into the ranks of the Illuminators, but recently _all_ their meetings had been primarily work related.

Kahina was a knight of the Radiant Ones, the strong arm group of a religious order known as The Illuminators, that provided charity to the outlying villages of the kingdom. In addition to this, they took a particular interest in all matters concerning the supernatural, which ordinary soldiers were at times woefully unequipped to handle.

So, when Lux saw that there was another person seated in the carriage, in the back, she just assumed it was one of their comrades.

A young woman with red glasses that stood out starkly against her pearly complexion, was there silently staring forward, dead set on her current objective with little time or patience to spare for normal pleasantries.

"Shauna Vayne," she merely uttered as an introduction, but that was all Lux needed, or wanted.

* * *

As Lux let her and the gloomy stranger into the lavish main room of the manor, it was obvious what they had come for, and it certainly wasn't to take in the old world decadence of one of Demacia's premier family's estates.

"Our _friend_ here would like to browse the Crownguard collection," Kahina said, sure enough.

Lux turned to her with one major concern on her mind, as Vayne was walking around the room, scouring every corner. "Kay, does she know about...?"

Vayne noticed a walking stick, embedded with cheap crystals on one end, leaning against the wall.

A walking stick, not unlike an albeit rudimentary magic wand.

 _Magic –_ Vayne's entire body bristled at the mere possibility.

"What are you hiding?" She growled through gritted teeth, as she turned with her wristbolt launcher pointed, to the bewildered stares of her hosts. Unbeknownst to them she'd actually been conducting a preliminary sweep of the room, and to hear them whispering behind her back had done little to alleviate her paranoia.

Kahina, as would anyone that knew Vayne to any degree, was quick to run damage control.

"The collection has some magic tomes you can't find anywhere else," she said. "I'm sure it will be a great resource to your...endeavors."

For a moment it was unknown whether this explanation had worked, as Vayne continually shifted her aim between the both of them, but ultimately refrained.

"Show me," she commanded, as if their lives depended on it.

* * *

The Crownguard collection was, essentially, the final resting place of occultic materials that were confiscated by state officials. It was a secret library, the existence of which was kept secret by the Illuminators and only their closest, most trusted confidants. Located in the cellar of the manor, the sole entrance was through a locked door to which Lux, as the current custodian of the manor, had the key.

Once the door creaked open, the three were met with a wooden staircase descending into a black abyss, wherein the sillhouettes of the rows of bookcases could just barely be made out.

Lux's first thought was to use her magic to create a light, but then she remembered Vayne's prior outburst.

"I'll get a candle," she said, and went back into the living room.

* * *

Someone was sprawled out on the loveseat when she got there, fondling one of the pomegranates she'd picked that morning.

"Ezreal! What are you-"

"The door was open, so I let myself in," he said, then took a bite out of the pomegranate and immediately spat it out. "Okay, ew. How can you eat these?"

"Dumby, you're only supposed to eat the seeds."

"Got visitors?" Ezreal asked, changing the subject. As far as he knew, Lux's only contact with people came from her trips to his market, or his place.

"Yes...as a matter of fact, I do."

Kahina and a very annoyed looking Vayne appeared in the hallway.

"Oh," Ezreal said, rising from the loveseat. "Looks serious...so I guess I'll, uh, be on my way."

Lux nodded, biting her lip. She would have much rather if he stayed, but her hands were tied.

* * *

It wasn't long before Vayne found what she wanted among the rows of bookcases – a dusty tome, with an otherwise plain red cover marked by a symbol of a crescent moon, that detailed accounts of vampire sightings throughout Runeterra along with proven methods of their disposal.

Lux was standing off to the side, holding the candle to provide her with light, next to Kahina.

"I found Vayne," Kahina said, "while I was hearing reports about the corpses of young women showing up in a river...completely drained of their blood."

Lux gasped. "In Demacia!?"

Kahina grunted in affirmation. "If that isn't bad enough, apparently one of the ranger-knights got caught in the middle of some kind of moon ritual the other night, down by Odessa."

Vayne started to listen in on the conversation, upon the mention of a 'moon ritual.'

"Only the ranger-knight survived. According to her, everyone else went crazy and started...killing each other, like wild animals."

"Creatures of the night thrive in chaotic environments," Vayne suddenly interjected.

The flickering light of the candle was cast in such a way that only half her face was lit up, her red glasses shining like a soulless, inhuman pair of eyes, when she turned to face them.

"In Demacia's current... _weakened_ state, order must be restored through _blood_."

In the moment of silence that followed, Lux realized that she was shivering in the warm cellar. She exchanged glances with Kahina, who was probably thinking the same thing.

As Vayne's eyes were deadset upon her, one thing became glaringly clear:

 _The hunt was on, and she was the hunted._


	14. Resolution - Part 4

Poppy could remember the first time she ever held Orlon's hammer.

It was a warm, pleasant day, and one of those rare times when Orlon had no pressing engagements elsewhere in the burgeoning capital.

At that point Poppy was well-entrenched within Demacian society – cold winters were no longer a bother, she was an active aide in wartime and construction efforts, and when she held another person's weapon she could swear she felt a part of their soul moving within, but Orlon's own was by far the toughest she'd faced to date.

"It's even heavier than it looks," she mused. She could not so much as lift it off the ground at the time, which only made her marvel more at the strength and seemingly effortless skill of its owner.

Orlon smiled. "Not just anyone can wield it, but I'm sure you'll get there...someday."

From just hearing those words, Poppy's whole life was about to change.

Before that day, she'd always been content just watching from the sidelines, offering whatever help she could in relief tents or menial supply chores, but no longer. Orlon said she had the potential to become more than that, and she was determined to prove him right.

However, she knew from the onset that it wouldn't come easy.

From that day on, she would devote countless hours of her free time to weight training, targeting every part of her body that was weak. She would watch the soldier's combat drills religiously and practice swings and stances, in secret, alongside them. For long periods she would run while wearing a full suit of plate mail to increase her stamina, not stopping until she was out of breath and her legs felt like they were made of stone.

Months passed before she saw her first signs of improvement, made in slower no doubt due to differences in Yordle physiology on top of her being a girl, but this only compelled her to push herself even harder.

In a word, she was unstoppable.

Before long she could not only do push-ups but do them with one hand tied behind her back.

She could run for hours, in full armor, barely breaking a sweat.

In time, she could arm herself with ordinary, human-sized blades with ease, but always did so with thoughts of the hammer lingering in the back of her mind.

At this point Orlon, who had been keeping tabs on her progress, called her to his station one evening.

"Think you're ready?" he asked, placing his hammer upright on the ground.

Poppy nodded. In her eyes, this was like a mythical sword in the stone. A final test of sorts to show her value to the Demacians; to show that she wasn't the same ditsy, wide-eyed girl from Bandle City any longer.

She gripped her fingers around the handle. This time, she would know _exactly_ how heavy it was.

* * *

Poppy swung her hammer to her side with one arm, her buckler on the other, causing Captain Gorn's soldiers to step back from the ensuing cloud of dust.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said to Gorn, glaring defiantly.

Garen was whispering to Jarvan. "Are you sure about this? I can go in her stead."

"Believe in your prince," he said, to remind him of his own words back at the war room, grinning confidently. "Noxus would do well to learn to fear our new comrade."

Gorn was amused by the idea of fighting an opponent no taller than his boot, to say the least. He scratched his chin, apparently giving it some thought, then glanced at the children in red as they were being coralled back to the base camp by some of the soldiers. His army's window to attack was closing, and this gamble – should the Demacians prove true to their word – _would_ be faster to resolve than an all-out battle, albeit far less fun.

"Very well," he said, with a sigh. "I accept your challenge."

* * *

The die had been cast.

Soldiers from both sides flocked in a wide circle around the two to watch.

Far away, on the high cliffs along the foothills of Mt. Targon, Rakkor warriors craned their necks in an effort to see what was going on.

General Ottavio observed from on the hill, always pleased to see the peerless Gorn in action.

"I fear I am wasting my time with you," Gorn said, as a squire went about unhitching the axe from his back. "Someone of your...stature, couldn't even best our cook."

Laughter resounded but Poppy brushed her nose, unswayed in her determination.

"Speaking of cooking, I've heard that your kind is a delicacy in some parts of Noxus. Never tried it myself, but depending on how our little fight goes, I'd be willing to try."

Garen instinctively reached for his sword in outrage, but Jarvan held him back.

Poppy still said nothing, even as the Noxian soldiers chimed in with their own taunts. Memories of another one of her experiences with Orlon were flooding back to her, drowning it all out.

* * *

It was a sparring match, only this time Poppy was wielding his own hammer against him. She was standing across from him, panting heavily, after they'd just exchanged blows.

"Each time you swing," Orlon had said, "it seems to knock all the wind out of you."

"I can still fight," she said, but the crackle in her own voice betrayed her.

"I don't doubt your tenacity. However, I think your technique could use a few adjustments."

* * *

Captain Gorn lunged forward with a downstroke of his axe, which Poppy managed to catch with the long handle of her hammer.

"I'm surprised you can even pick that up," he said, baring his fanglike molars.

His axe's blade was still baring down hard on the handle, coming dangerously close to her face.

 _Try to avoid direct contests of power,_ Orlon's words echoed. _Just because you're small doesn't mean you can't fight, but it's important to know in what areas you're outmatched._

Poppy swung the hammer outward to push him away.

 _Use your size to your advantage!_

She noticed, as she backstepped to dodge his ensuing attacks, due of her small height his swings had a particular diagonal arc to them. So, for the following blow, she instead dodged inward toward him, into the empty space beneath the strike.

...only to be picked up by one of her pigtails and thrown, sent tumbling across the hot sand.

Shyvana looked frantically to Jarvan. "Call it off!"

Although silent, even he was beginning to have second thoughts.

"Nice try, little girl," Gorn said, resting his axe across his shoulders. "I'd say that I'm disappointed, but I wasn't really expecting much in the first place."

Poppy shook the sand out of her hair as she got back unto her feet.

 _If the going gets tough, try a new approach!_

She glanced at her buckler. It wouldn't suffice to shield her from Gorn's brutal strikes, but perhaps it could have another use...

Gorn scoffed. "I'm done playing around. This next strike will end it, so say your prayers."

Suddenly, his face contorted into a sadistic smirk.

As he rushed forward with his axe reared back behind his head, Poppy knew she had to make the next move count.


	15. Resolution - Part 5

Jax and Taric were trudging across the desert, miles away from the mountain, with Taric having had some of his gems fuse together to form a barrier under which they could be shielded from the harsh sun. Only then were they able to take the time to get to know each other's names, and a bit of their backstories that lead up to this whole crazy ordeal.

"A Demacian, huh?" Jax grumbled. "Aren't you a li'l far from home?"

"I no longer have a home," he replied stoically as though whether or not he did meant little in he grand scheme of things, but then his expression was crossed by a shadow of remorse. "I failed my people in a way that can never be undone. Mt. Targon was to be my executioner."

"Heh," Jax snickered. "Something didn't go as planned."

To say his assessment was an understatement would be an understatement in and of itself. Targon's blessing had spared Taric's life, but also greatly expanded his level of awareness regarding the secret, inner workings of the universe, of which most humans were blissfully unaware.

In many ways this newfound wisdom would prove a double-edged sword, as he was beginning to discover.

From being so close to Jax, away from all the prior distractions, Taric got the sense that something was distinctly 'off' about his new acquaintance. His presence was completely devoid of the usual warm traces of life, and in its place was a bleak, hollow emptiness, akin to the anomalies he'd sensed were scattered across the land, while atop the mountain.

 _Can it be?_ Taric considered, unable to fully grasp the reality being presented to him. That this person whom he had come to trust might possibly be from _the other world_?

Jax could tell something was weighing on his mind. "What's wrong? Is the heat getting to you?"

"No, I...was wondering what your plans were, once we reached the next village."

Jax grunted. A verbal shrug, if there ever were such a thing.

Vultures had started to circle overhead, but their presence went unnoticed. So long as death came-a-knocking and either of them had anything to say about it, he would just have to wait another day, as long as they worked together.

And thus, an unlikely friendship was born.

* * *

Poppy's blow was decisive, and quick. So quick, that many in attendance to the fight had blinked and missed it, only to then see Captain Gorn on his knees, howling in agony, with her buckler wedged firmly _into_ his face between his left eye and his nose, amidst a cascade of blood.

"Amazing," Jarvan said, staring in awe over what had just transpired.

She had waited until last second, rearing her upper body back in a half-turn, holding the buckler above the opposite shoulder in an odd fashion.

Then, she swung her arm forward, letting loose the buckler in the direction of Gorn's face with a vertical spin, whilst simultaneously swinging the hammer at full force with the other arm, then both arms, so that it hit against the buckler just as it made contact with his face, effectively driving its sharpened metal edge into his skull.

Garen stepped forward, raising his sword into the air. "Demacia!"

As the initial shock faded, the Demacian forces erupted into cheers. Meanwhile, some Noxian soldiers came to drag the irate captain away to nurse his wound, at a further cost to his pride.

"Kill them!" he barked, prodding his finger at the Demacians. "Kill them all!"

All pretenses of civility were discarded in an instant.

The Noxian forces surged forward in a wave of red and black, chanting and yelling like Avarosan barbarians with their blades and maces and axes flailing.

"It appears as though these Noxian dogs haven't had enough defeat for one day!" Garen said, facing the soldiers under his command. "To arms, men!"

Jarvan pulled Poppy out of the fray. "Leave the rest to us," he said.

"I can still fight," she said, but the crackle in her own voice betrayed her.

"I don't doubt your tenacity, ambassador," Jarvan said between breaths, as they fled, "but I'm pretty sure both our heads would fetch a hefty bounty back in Noxus Prime."

As soon as they were clear of the fighting, Poppy pulled on Jarvan's arm to make him stop.

"Don't tell me you hinged your entire strategy on the word of a Noxian! Did you actually think that if I won the fight they _wouldn't_ all try to kill us anyway?"

"Of course not," he said, then leaned down closer to her to say, "I wanted to give you a chance."

"A chance to do what?!" she snapped. No matter his answer, Poppy couldn't believe he would so casually risk the lives of his soldiers and indeed the success of the entire campaign.

"To prove yourself," he replied softly, or about as softly as he could manage with all the noise.

The cacophany of clashing steel and cries of fury and pain were deafening, as the barren wasteland was turned into a bloodbath yet again. Garen carved through huge swathes of men with a single swing of his giant blade. Shyvana's claws pierced through armor, flesh, and bone in her nimble, dancelike combat style.

Poppy's heart was thumping in her chest, but not from the battle raging around her.

"Ambassador...you were magnificent," Jarvan said.

"It's Poppy, your majesty," she said, nervously fumbling with one of her gauntlets – it becoming slightly loosened was the only 'injury' she'd sustained from the fight. "My name, I mean..."

A Noxian grunt came rushing at Jarvan, but was swiftly parried then skewered by his lance.

"Let's continue this discussion later," he said. "All we have to do is stand our ground until reinforcements arrive."

* * *

Leona was still fuming over the two escaped prisoners when news reached her of the ongoing skirmish, by way of one of the Demacian scouts.

She arrived by way of a litterbox, at the head of a long procession of Rakkor warriors.

Captain Gorn was unconscious from blood loss by the time they arrived, and General Ottavio, in his rage, had just taken up his blade against Jarvan.

"Looks like you've been outmaneuvered, General," the prince said, pointing to what was going on behind him.

It was then that Ottavio realized, much like Jax and Taric before him, that he was surrounded.

The Rakkor had taken up position on the north side of the hill, facing Targon, whereas on the eastward side where they were fighting the Demacians, all while the reserve troops came up from the south. This not only prevented them from escaping in any direction except West – the direction from whence they'd come – but also served to completely cut them off from the assistance of the various other units posted around the mountain.

The crows that had been pecking at Pantheon's helmet finally dispersed, but they left behind feathers so that even the victors knew this was far from the end.


	16. Upheaval - Part 1

Winter had come, wrapping Demacia in its chilling embrace.

Snow covered the city of High Providence, forcing most of its people indoors except for the ever vigilant guardsmen and hard-pressed providers still needing to go about their daily business.

In the aftermath of the battle at Mt. Targon there was, in a word, peace. The once frequent border disputes had ceased, resulting in an era of stability during which Demacia's armies saw little service.

As part of an ongoing effort to keep their skills sharp during this time – for war was never truly that far around he corner with enemies like Noxus – Poppy and Xin Zhao were having a friendly spar in the throne room.

The seneschal's strikes with the spear were suprisingly swift, leaving no room for Poppy to launch an offense.

"I see the weather isn't slowing you down one bit!" she said.

She continued to deflect his thrusts with her brand new buckler – a gift from the king in honor of her role in the victory at Targon – that was adorned with the Demacian crest.

Xin Zhao tried to surprise her with a sudden swing, but she blocked it with the hammer's head.

"Neither has it dulled your excellent defense," he said as he reared back sharply, foreshadowing the onset of his next flurry of attacks.

* * *

A pack of hounds tore through the snowy forest in pursuit of a hare, barking and baying from the intoxicating thrill of the hunt.

Prince Jarvan and Garen lagged behind, on horseback, moving at a leisurely gallop, dressed in plain clothes instead of armor as such was the level of security felt throughout the lands at that time.

Once they'd lost sight of the hounds again, Jarvan bid his horse to halt.

"Just like old times," he said, hearkening back to the hunts of their childhood. They were always less interested in the event itself; more in using it as a temporary reprieve from their responsibilities.

Garen stopped as well, with a mirthful air about him. "It's good for the dogs, and it's good for us."

The two dismounted at the bank of a frozen lake – their usual spot – where Jarvan procured a bundle of cigars from his saddle bag.

Garen at first declined an offering of one, but Jarvan pressed it into his hand anyway.

"Look at us grown men...soldiers, even," the prince mused as he took a seat in the grass with his back to a gnarled tree. "Sneaking out to the lake for a chat, with cigars."

Lighting his cigar by way of a steel striker and a chunk of flint, all his troubles seemed to melt away with the smoke that filled his lungs.

Garen examined his own with disgust. "I'd still rather we dispense with these, but go on..."

"Spare me the nagging for just this once, would you?" Jarvan groaned, took in another whiff of tobacco then continued, "Father came down with a cough this morning, and the doctors have said it could very well end him." He sighed, wringing his hands as if prompt a rise from an audience. "Can you imagine? My father, the great King Jarvan III, felled by a mere cough!"

"Yes...it's only a matter of time," Garen said gravely, then added with renewed vigor, "which is all the more reason why you should strive to better yourself starting from _now_."

Jarvan flicked his cigar away, agitated by his friend's latest attempt to purify him, but trying hard to not let it show.

Then, something he'd never thought of before suddenly popped into his head.

"Garen..." he said, mulling over the phrasing of the next few words in his head before proceeding, "have you ever had a woman before?"

His whole being seemd to bristle at the query. "What?!"

"Any 'bonnie lasses' about town caught your eye, at least? Come on...you can tell me."

"I can't tell if you're mocking me," Garen professed. _Oh, but you would, if you only knew_ , he thought _._

It pained him to not be at liberty to talk about the one woman that came to his mind – much to his shame – even though she'd held his life on the edge of a blade when last they met. He wanted to enthuse about her long, crimson hair, or the intensity of her stare, or her body that was thin and toned with lean muscle, yet far from deprived in all the right places. If not for her name that, if uttered, was enough to strike fear into the hearts of even the stoutest of Demacian loyals. As beautiful as she was dangerous, even Garen had had to continually remind himself that she was the enemy.

However, this was one of those cases where a person asks a question to soften someone up before bringing a secret of their own out into the open.

"Friend, I need your advice," Jarvan said, and took a deep breath. "Let's say you had strong... _feelings_ , for a girl, but knew that everyone: your friends, your family, your soldiers...your people...would disapprove, if they ever found out." He flicked away the spent bud of his first cigar, sighing, already retrieving his next. "What is a man to do? Follow his heart at the cost of everything, or continue on with the charade, becoming little more than a slave to the whims and dictates of society?"

Garen shrugged. "Sounds like you've read far too much into philosophy in your spare time."

In truth he'd often entertained similar considerations in the past, pertaining to his own plight, but couldn't bear to admit it. To allow one weakness to creep into his heart would no doubt attract more, and such wordly, selfish desires had no place in the heart of a knight of his prestige, nor a prince.

Still, Garen _knew_ Jarvan. He knew that no matter what he said, it wouldn't dissuade him.

For reasons that Garen did not fully understand, Jarvan had seen fit to live a secret life of pleasure and debauchery. One that, although he would try at every possible opportunity to turn him from, was ultimately up to him and his own volition to change.

Thus, he imparted the only bit of advice that would have made sense in this situation.

"Whatever, or _who_ ever it is," Garen said, at last bringing his cigar to his lips, momentarily allowing his resolve to slip. "Try not to get caught."

* * *

Poppy and Xin Zhao were taken out of their fight by the sound of a loud cough, coming from the king's chambers past the door situated behind the throne.

"Please excuse me," Xin said with a slight bow, then returned his spear to its mount on the wall.

He left for a few minutes, and was surprised to see Poppy had waited on him.

"Seems like a lot of work looking after his majesty," she said.

Xin Zhao smiled demurely. Though he was so skilled with the spear – as a matter of fact, he'd taught the prince everything he knew – he was ever the image of calm and grace.

"I don't mind," he said. "The debt I owe to the Lightshield dynasty, to this country and its people, can never be repayed."

"Why not serve in the army, then?" She said, drawing a parallel to her own situation. "Someone with your skill could do a lot of good."

Xin Zhao shook his head. "No, I...could never. I am too old...my dreams of glory on the battlefield are far gone from me...now, all my hope rests in the nation's new generation of defenders."

Poppy looked to his spear on the wall. An exemplar of the elegant, lightweight Ionian style – albeit a bit chipped and scratched in some areas throughout its years of service – it was no less potent even in retirement, just like its owner. She hadn't given much thought to the fact that she was nearing one hundred years old –roughly the middle of the road, in Yordle years – but in that moment the excruciating impermanence of time dawned on her with such an intensity as she had never experienced before.

 _I still haven't found the hero,_ she thought, and for the first time in a long time Orlon's hammer felt its full weight in her arms.

* * *

Meanwhile, a winged figure was tearing across the snowy plains.

Quinn was being sped up by Valor by way of him clutching unto her shoulders with his talons as he flapped his wings in rhythm with her long, running strides.

Their destination was New Providence. Their goal? Redemption.

Inside Quinn's side pouch was Roch's silver chalice.


	17. Upheaval - Part 2

To be a magic user in Demacia was to live in constant fear. Upon your discovery, in situations where the more covert _annullers_ , Illuminators, and innumerable other, lesser known anti-magic organizations – some more reputable than others – had failed, the people were known to take matters into their own hands.

Lux got her first taste of this when she returned home that afternoon.

"Who the hell could have done this?" Ezreal said, as he was inspecting the state of the Crownguard manor's then decimated main room.

Someone must have broken in the night before and totally trashed the place; wrecking furniture, smashing the fine pottery, carving up whatever couldn't be smashed or broken apart like the loveseat cushions, paintings, the front door, all that morning while Lux was out.

Terrified, she clung to his arm. "Look...on the wall," she said, pointing.

Pinned to the wall like a public bulletin, via a silver crossbow bolt, was a yellow piece of parchment with a note that ominously read, "we know your secret."

As Ezreal was examining it, Lux turned her attention to something else.

Her walking stick – that curiously resembled a magic wand – was in pieces on the floor.

"Secret?" Ezreal said, gazing at her in perplexity.

Lux nodded somberly, holding back tears. She'd been debating whether to tell him about her particular 'gift,' but now it seemed she had no choice.

* * *

On his way to answer a summons to the throne room, prince Jarvan spotted a familiar blue eagle perched atop one of the Citadel's snow-covered outer walls.

He groaned, knowing its presence could only mean one thing.

"Fancy seeing you here, Quinn," he said in the throne room, standing at arm's length from the ranger-knight with his arms crossed. "Ever since you flew off with that new boyfriend of yours...that wretched _bird!_ "

Quinn scowled. "First of all, Valor is _not_ the reason I dumped you, so get over it. Second-"

King Jarvan cleared his throat, qwelling their argument before it could start.

"Ranger-knight Quinn says she has news about an incident," he said. "Something that happened at one of the villages."

Quinn bit her lip, unable to suppress the feelings rising up within her regarding that fateful night.

The frustration of her own helplessness, borne from a fear of the unknown; of forces far beyond her understanding, that she simply was not prepared to deal with.

As she conveyed the events of that night, the king's face grew pale.

"Magic?!" King Jarvan exclaimed in horror.

He began to shake and whimper inconsolably, as if he'd gone completely mad.

Xin Zhao stepped forward from his post. "Please excuse his majesty." And promptly retired the king to his chambers.

An awkward tension settled in between Quinn and Jarvan.

They both knew that there was potentially a huge issue plaguing the nation, and they of course both wanted to work together to resolve it, but reconciliation would take time.

"My father," Jarvan finally managed to say, laughing, "thinks his blindness is the result of a curse."

Quinn nodded, but averted her eyes. So, Jarvan pushed harder.

"I sometimes marvel at the idea of a nation ruled by a blind king prospering for as long as we have," he said.

"Oh, really?" said Quinn, spiteful. "Think you're up for the job?"

"Perhaps you haven't heard of my recent victory at Targon, while you were out there in the wild country."

"Military victories say nothing about your ability to rule an entire country, which you and I both know you wouldn't be able to get through without your little 'late night excursions,' that will no doubt be a thing of the past."

She scowled. "I've seen how you are when you're drunk."

"I've changed," Jarvan said, waving her off dismissively. "Not that I need to prove anything to you."

"Oh, really? Because it sounds like you were trying _really_ hard to do just that..."

"I've moved on," he snapped back, with finality.

Quinn seemed taken aback. Before she could launch a riposte, however, Poppy suddenly burst through the doors.

"Your majesty," she blurted. "I came as soon as I-"

Poppy stopped when she saw that the king was absent, and Jarvan was standing oddly close to this very angry looking woman she'd never met before.

"Should I just go?"

The situation was embarrassing for all that were involved, to say nothing of the throne guards who had watched it all unfold.

Jarvan and Quinn exchanged glances, sighing – they would have this discussion another day.

"No...please stay," Jarvan said. "We may have a problem on our hands."

* * *

Meanwhile, Ezreal gasped as the stone gargoyle came to life before his eyes then stooped to appraise him, a most unexpected visitor, with great interest.

"Are you the 'EZ-ERR-ALL' my friend always speaks of?" Galio said, scratching his head.

Ezreal was so startled that he fell down, and struggled to scoot away as one of Galio's gigantic fingers loomed ever closer.

"Try not to crush him, Galio," Lux said, then added with a giggle, "unless he hits on me."

Galio grunted in affirmation. "Okay! If he attacks you, I will smash him to pieces."

Ezreal screamed like a little girl.

Once he got over the initial shock of seeing a rock not only move but also talk, they were able to return to the issue at hand.

"The rumors about the gargoyle were true after all," Ezreal said in amazement, while Galio was lightly patting him on the head. "And Lux, you're...y-you're a..."

"I'm a mage," she said, for what she was sure to be the first time in her life.

Since Ezreal was born and raised in Piltover, a city built on technology with little regards for magic or superstition, the revelation hardly mattered to him. However, it didn't take a profession in archaeology and history to know the cultural significance of magic in Demacia.

"The letter was a warning...but who do you think wrote it? Who else have you told?"

Lux had a few suspicions, and even though it just as well could have been anyone in town that might have caught a glimpse of something, or had even the mildest suspicion of her, one name in particular rose to mind.

"Shauna Vayne," she said aloud, so as not to forget it.


	18. Upheaval - Part 3

No great nation, no matter how prosperous, ever stands totally united. Such was the case even with New Providence, where nobles with ancestries that could be traced back to the city's original settlers had been engaged in a constant war with one another, since then, to gain and maintain influence. 'Influence' generally came in the form of voting power a la seats at the senate, and there was always more than one way to skin a cat...

Fiora, whose own rise to become the Head of House Laurent was stained with blood, suffered no illusions about the commonly cutthroat ways of the aristocracy.

She had bided her time until then, when she saw a chance at making her biggest power play to date.

"A vampire?" Fiora said, scoffing derisively. "Do you mistake me for a common fool?"

"I've seen stranger things," Vayne said, containing her irritation over the thoughtless dismissal of her carefully researched conclusion. "The accounts are a precise match."

Fiora grinned, content that despite her reputation the girl knew better than to talk back.

The two were seated in the Laurent manor's lavish dining room, talking business. Fiora had heard of the prolific Night Hunter through her expansive connections, and so enlisted her aide in a little matter involving a Duke Borges of another House, who was being implicated in the murders of several young girls whose bodies had all washed up downriver of his mansion.

"To succeed in this would be to bring great esteem to my family," she said. "Rest assured, you will be rewarded handsomely."

"The hunt is its own reward," Vayne retorted, snarling.

"Should you fail and make a mockery of my family," Fiora riposted, "I shall deal with you myself."

Vayne nodded. Only death could get in the way of her and her target, anyway.

Fiora slid an enveloped across to Vayne. She turned it over and saw that it was still sealed with wax, and marked 'Shauna' in elegant cursive.

"The Duke was kind enough to _invite_ you to the ball he is hosting, tonight," Fiora explained. "Dress the part, and blend in. This arrangement is between us and the duke, so do not arouse any suspicions while you search for this..." she laughed, "vampire, or whatever it may be, who will no doubt be interested in all the beautiful, young girls that will attend."

Vayne picked up the envelope and looked it over, thinking that the lives of the aristocrats were so tedious to waste on such trivial amusements, but it would make for a decent cover.

However, she still had but one lingering concern.

"What if the _duke_ is actually the one responsible for the murders?" she said.

Fiora's general air of mild, condescending amusement abruptly faded.

"The duke must be kept alive, at all costs. Even if he _is_ the killer, it can be used to our advantage. So, if he dies, remember..."

 _I will carve you like a winter goose,_ Vayne read from her silent glare, and understood.

* * *

A meeting was called together that afternoon between Prince Jarvan, Quinn, Poppy, and Kahina, of the Radiant Ones. They convened at the war room, where Quinn could mark the location of the cave where the ritual had taken place on the giant map of Runeterra.

As she was about to do so, she stopped. Jarvan, watching, could tell she was tense.

"If you're still a little shaken about what happened," he said, "it's okay."

Quinn shook her head. "No, it's not. I let fear get the better of me, and now because of it..."

Jarvan gripped her shoulder. She wanted to protest but didn't, in her moment of weakness.

"Very few of us know how to deal with situations involving magic," he said, casting a glance at Kahina, across the table. "What's important now is figuring out what we can do to prevent something like this from happening again."

Poppy, who was tending to the fireplace, observed their exchange with a sour expression.

After Quinn's location was marked, Kahina set about marking all the places that her people had received reports from, that were verified to have involved supernatural activity of some sort.

"Once upon a time, such cases were few and far between," she said as the total rose past twenty.

"Unbelievable," Jarvan said. An anger was rising within him – for all this time he'd thought peace reigned in the kingdom, it was slowly collapsing just under his nose.

Even Poppy, after decades of journeying throughout the kingdom, was surprised by the sheer volume of magic-related cases. In all, she could have probably count the number of brushes she'd had with magic over the years on both hands. Magic was always been a hot topic of debate, to be sure, but never an actual, tangible thing to be feared.

When Kahina was at last finished, barely any part of Demacia had been spared.

Everywhere, it would seem, except for New Providence.

"Cult-like activity and sightings of unknown entities are the most frequent," Kahina explained.

"Unknown entities?" Poppy cut in, as she was walking up to the table.

"Bizarre, often violent creatures that stalk the wilderness at night, occasionally venturing into towns to wreak havoc."

Quinn elbowed Jarvan to get his attention.

"Hey...you're always out sampling the nightlife," she whispered to him, "so how come you've never caught wind of any of this?"

Jarvan sighed. "I told you...I've changed."

He glanced at Poppy, who had been secretly watching them again, causing her to look away.

"As you can see, we have a full-blown epidemic on our hands," Kahina went on, crossing her arms. "I'm surprised that this is your first time hearing about it."

"I'm not the King. My father would be the one who receives reports of this nature," Jarvan said, then added begrudgingly, "but for whatever reason, he's decided not to act on them..."

Quinn chuckled. "I don't know...maybe it's 'cuz he's a total _nutcase_?"

" _Ambassador_ ," Jarvan quickly said, turning to Poppy. _"_ Mind sharing your thoughts?"

Off by herself, warming her hands by the fire, she did not appear to be all that concerned with the discussion, but then again she was never the type to turn her back on Demacia.

"The people must be losing hope," she said. "None of their calls for help are being answered, so to them it must seem like the king has left them for dead."

Jarvan and Quinn exchanged glances, both of them seeing the wisdom behind her words.

Kahina nodded. "Let us prove them wrong."


End file.
